


Divine

by metal_eye



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, But they still have sex, Fallen Angels, Forbidden Love, God is a dick, I don't even know what I'm doing with these tags, M/M, Pre-smut, Reincarnation, Religion is kind of the enemy here, a bit of angst, ambiguous fandom - Freeform, angel!Harry, angel!louis, but there's gay angel sex okay, eventually anyway, general ambiguity, is that even a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metal_eye/pseuds/metal_eye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When angels fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually rewritten this damn thing four times-- each with different character sets.
> 
> I think I just wrote it to be timeless, nebulous, adaptable; mobile and moldable to the most potent forbidden love-- because what is more forbidden than being cast out by God?
> 
> Originally written fifteen years ago. Rewritten three times. And now... rewritten AGAIN. 
> 
> Because I have been swallowed by the big gay black hole that is 1D fandom. Because I think Harry and Louis are the characters now, in that when the most popular boyband on the planet steps out of line, the consequences can be dire, and two boys are reduced to tattoos and pretending.
> 
> Here's to all the illicit loves that ever were.
> 
> Playlist:  
> Catherine Wheel / God Inside My Head  
> HIM / Heartache Every Moment  
> Gary Numan / Absolution  
> Savage Garden / Mine  
> Craig Armstrong / Escape  
> Craig Armstrong / Wake Up in New York  
> Catherine Wheel / Hole  
> Goo Goo Dolls / Iris  
> Nine Inch Nails / The Only Time  
> Blue Stone / Worlds Apart (Searching for You)

God took me aside for a concerned scolding yesterday. He must be disappointed with the thoughts that burn so obviously through my conscience. He took me by my wings and gave me a stern speech: do I know the meaning of purity; do I understand what is holy; do I comprehend why I, above all, must never think of such things, for such is not divine.

He was angry because I _wanted_ you.

I got the picture soon enough. I will not dirty myself in the light of our power. We are angels; we have been gifted our wings of spiritual essence. We are angels. I will not love you.

I will not, though as always, I work by your side today. We drift in and out of universes, catching glimpses of other worlds, sometimes altering them. We carry out his wishes. But the wind that rushes past us ruffles your hair, and not even he can keep me from looking. You are always here, around me, inside me, passing through me. You speak my name as if it were a breath of wind. Sometimes I turn and find that same want in your eye.

But we are angels, and our kisses are but chaste and honorary. We are angels—ageless, sexless, lacking any need or means of reproduction. We are angels, I say. I say that God must be proud of me. Unless he can see inside my dreams.

We do not dream—at least not in the way that humans dream. My wants and hopes walk before me as hallucinations, taunting, tempting, making me reach for them. In this way, I cannot escape you, Harry. In this way, I am always dreaming of you.

 

Today, we have been sent to the other side. There has been sadness and pain, sins of the human kind, and it was our job to fix them, today. We must strive for hope, and for happiness. Purity. This is our supposed purpose.

After completing our work, we stay for a while, not wanting to return just yet. We linger above the other world, swooping in and out of clusters of clouds. The weather whips across our faces—although being angels, we cannot truly feel it.

 _Louis,_ you cry, just above this rushing roar of nature. _Try to hold onto the sunlight! Isn’t it impossible?_

You speak of impossibility as if it were a rare gem of fate.

And I cannot say I have; I cannot say that such a thing would have occurred to me, if not for you. My fingers stretch towards that big ball of glistening light, trying to hold on to something. But you’re upwind of me now, just out of my reach.

 _See?_ you say. _You can grasp and grab, but it always seems to slip through your fingers._

 _Harry,_ I hear my voice shouting, with no real aim other than to solidify the moment into my memory.

I have to make sure it happens. Always. Otherwise I can’t stand it.

 _I can’t stand it, Lou,_ you’re calling. _I just can’t... stand it._

Our minds are the same. Our physical counterparts should be the same. There are flashes of something I recall from the other world, now. Glimpses of sweat, passion—a hot thing—

_HARRY. LOUIS._

It echoes in my ears, drowning out any noises we could make by ourselves.

 _It’s him..._ You fly quickly to my side and take my hands _. He’s heard something._ Your hands are trembling.

_THESE RECURRING BRUSHES WITH HUMAN SIN ARE TROUBLING ME._

I grip your hands more tightly.

_PROPER PUNISHMENT FOR REPEATED VIOLATIONS IS IN ORDER._

The voice is deafening, but not rough—calming, somehow. I begin to relax just a little, in spite of myself.

_YOU MAY RETURN. BUT YOU MUST ASCEND IN PURITY._

And so it is done.

 

This is how we find ourselves, in dark surroundings, soaking wet. Rain pelts at us. Noises assault our ears. And the strangest sensation is that of frigidity: the wind is cold, intolerably so, and I can _feel_ it. Physically.

We are not angels.

There is a paper Pepsi cup in the gutter at my feet. A vehicle passes, drunk with rain. It flips its high beams and runs two tires through the river on our side of the street. A sheet of mud coats me from head to toe. It’s freezing. These thin clothes that cover us are not divine—they cannot protect us. Nothing can.

Suddenly gripped by the urge to run, I cling to your hand—which is not quite so smooth as before—and pull you with me around the corner, into an alley, searching for anywhere that will tell me where we are. When I round another corner, I catch sight of a door opening onto the pavement. There is no sign of any kind—there is an orange glow coming from inside; there is light, and there is warmth.

A few more seconds and I stumble into the building, pulling you behind me, both of our bodies dripping with the remnants of a city storm.

Under the cheap fluorescent lights of this scrawny lobby, I finally find myself able to look at you.

Drops of dirty water run off the tips of your curly hair. You are wearing an equally dark t-shirt. No luminescence takes the pockmarks away from pale skin. The skin you are in.

The unique colored eyes, however, they tell me: _it’s you._ Harry, you have become a _man_. Human.

I look at my shoulders, to my cotton shirt and ribcage, to my feet encased in brown, floppy shoes, and up at you again. He meant for us to be human, for us both to be male, for our punishment to be complete, challenging, and painful.

But I am still Louis, and you, Harry, and this, however small, is a comfort.

 

I notice shortly that your gaze has fixed to something else across the room. Consumed by our predicament, I have forgotten the possible presence of other beings—the non-divines.

Following your line of sight, I see it end at a rather large, inebriated woman, in a set of clothing far too small for such a frame, propositioning a man sitting on a sofa. I turn my eyes. Three men slamming down shotglasses on a table in a corner. Another turn. A young girl in a halter leading a stumbling, bearded man up the stairs.

I finally realize what kind of place this is.

 _A house of sin_ , “he” would call it.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around to face the toothy grin of a bald man with bad breath.

 _You two want girls?_ he asks—a throaty, cigarette-stained voice.

I look at you, confused at how to respond. You lick your lips nervously and stare back with a desperate look in those familiar eyes.

 _Oh, I see,_ the bald man says, smirking a little. He motions to someone at a reception desk. _Get these gentlemen a room!_ he roars, as if he were the voice of God himself.

I suddenly find myself shoved up a set of rickety wooden stairs, fumbling around for your hand, as if it could save us from this place, somehow. But you are also being pushed, and in between the clash and clatter of bottles I can catch parts of a long stream of words being thrown at our backs—things like _fifty dollars for a night_ and _no complaints_ and _beer at the bar downstairs._

Slam, whack, click. A toss of keys, a thump of boots. An ugly rose bedspread, a cracked window. The rug is fuzzy and brown and the bathroom smells of vomit.

I can’t think of what to say. I feel small, like I could fit myself through the keyhole in the wooden door and pull you along. You’re just standing there in the sea of dark brown rug, still wet, still appearing as though you’ve left your mind outside on the street, in a gutter. I feel like I’ve been crumpled, stained—used.

Our new eyes meet, and my knees buckle. I cross the room, and your arms engulf me. Safety.

But there is nowhere for us to go, except to the couch under the window, where we collapse into each other. Then, nothing changes for minutes on end.

I’m human— _I’m counting the minutes._

 _Harry,_ I say, just between shudders. _What are we going to do?_

You say nothing, but there is a breath of wind coming, over and over, that seems to dry my hair: _Lou._

I have always ached to be so close to you.

Your breath in my hair, your arms closed around me—it is all so tactile, and so _real._ These are your fingers, and this is your skin, and these are your lips on mine—

Your lips. A kiss.

There is nothing chaste or honorary about this.

It is deep, soul searching, and unholy. It is filled with a desire I have never quite felt, or allowed myself to.

 _You taste... divine,_ I whisper as we come up for air _._

We clutch at each other’s faces, foreheads touching, lips everywhere at once. I begin to search under your shirt with my hands, trying to find the skin underneath. But then you gently hold my arms down, perhaps expecting to hear that thundering voice again, speaking of divinity.

I suppose that God can no longer speak to us—not directly, through such human ears as ours—but he might possibly be watching. Listening.

 _If we do this,_ you say sadly, _we will never go back._ _We will grow old, and die._

Such is the nature of heaven. No sin.

But I want nothing more than to blend together with you. I can think of nothing else, and I see the same thought in those green, gutting eyes. Eyes that are still yours.

Another kiss, a breath of _yes._ I slip off your shirt, throw it aside. It speaks of lust and love and many more of these lifetimes.

Yes, we will be cast out of heaven. Our bodies will grow old and be scattered to the winds that once carried us. And somehow I will find you again.

But I cannot think on this with sadness.

Because now, my hands are tracing the subtle curves of your chest. My fingers are searching, and soon graze the tips of your nipples. We lie back; I kiss your tongue, and in tongueing your taste, I want nothing—not purity, holiness, or wings—except you. And as we caress these forms, lick them like they were always our own; as you breathe my name into the crevice of my neck, we both hurtle towards some point of emotional purity, and I think, this. _This_ is the divine thing, truly. I am once again a part of heaven, sharing this with you.


End file.
